Page 28 of Hunting Ground

I’m not used to being in the role of needing protection, especially with these two. And the look on Ansel’s face is…strange.

Not bad, exactly. Just strange. He stares at me, like he wants to say something, before shaking his head and moving to the duffel bags one more time. I hear the sound of zippers and he turns to hand me a phone. His phone, probably, judging by the picture of a dog that decorates his lock screen. I doubt it’s his dog, or maybe it is. But the longer I stare at it, the more I remember all of the dogs he met on errands that he always took pictures of.

Even the white crusty dogs.

“For you. I’m assuming you don’t have yours. Adrien said they took everyone’s.”

“I actually think I left mine at the hotel,” I admit with some relief. At least there, I know where it is. But I pocket the one Ansel gives me with a grin and a murmur of gratitude.

“So how do I uh, you know, find them do you think?” I ask, adjusting the knife. “Surely you don’t think I should just walk around aimlessly, right?”

But when I turn to the three of them, their bemused looks cause my heart to sink.

I sigh, throw my head back, and groan. “You totally do.”

They do, though the idea of this is absolutely ridiculous to me. It feels weird to just stroll down the pier looking for trouble–but a specific kind of trouble. Not just the general trouble caused by the other hunters here. I hate not having the crowbar in my hand, and my fingers twitch around nothing every time I hear a scream or steps over the music.

The knife is better, I remind myself as I stop at the far end of the pier. Twenty minutes of putting one foot in front of the other, and I haven’t seen them. Every person I do see stops to give me a look from behind a mask, though they move on without saying anything or coming after me. Yet every time I freeze like a rabbit in a trap, wondering if they’re the ones who want me dead.

I hate this place, I think to myself as I stop to stare at the carousel. I’ve been trying to tell myself for years that I don’t, but I can finally admit that I do. The years of Wonderlight Pier employment were absolute fucking shit.

My eyes narrow, and I glare at every passing horse or seat or faded elephant like it’s personally offended me. Like the carousel creatures are the cause of my trouble tonight.

I’m too focused on the way the cracked paint shines in the reflection of the flickering lights above. About half of them don’t work, and of the half that do, a large minority stutter like every second might be their last. The winking almost hypnotizes me, and the movement in my vision coupled by the adrenaline slowly leaching out of me in lieu of exhaustion, have me completely still and staring.

Ansel’s phone vibrates in my pocket and I jump, the spell broken. That’s enough to have me glancing around at the sound of noise, and when I turn, I see two men in unoriginal, white masks standing a few yards away.

“Ghostface and Michael Myers?” I drawl as I turn to look at them. “How original. How daring. Truly, so bold–”

“You talk real big for someone who won’t have a tongue to talk with soon enough.” The Michael masked man steps forward a few times, and his hand tightens on the knife in his hand. The other one, the taller one in the Ghostface mask, only watches impassively, his arms folded over his chest.

My hands curl more tightly, and my fingers dig into my palms until I’m half-sure they’re about to break skin. I want to run. I want to get away from them, instead of hold my ground, and I find standing here much harder than I thought it would be.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask as I take a step back towards the overwhelming ride blasting music and light behind me. My fingers uncurl from my palms, though I have to physically pry them free to do it. “I don’t even know you.”

“Because women like you need to be put down,” the man snaps quietly, under his breath. “Women like you need to know your place. And I will be so fucking happy to teach it to you before this night is done.”

That has my blood seething. I jerk my head up, lips curled in disgust. “My place?” I repeat. “You can’t just–”

All of a sudden, the man in the ghostface mask moves. He grabs his companion, stopping him from making another move towards me, and in the same move, he pulls a gun.

A fucking handgun appears from the inside of his jacket, and without warning, he fires it over my shoulder, chipping something off the carousel. I freeze, stunned, only for hot liquid to trickle down the side of my neck, and a moment later, my ear starts to burn where I’d been grazed.

“W-what–” I begin, only to be cut off by Short and Shitty.

“What the hell?” he snaps, whirling on his friend. “Why would you–”

“Come out, come out, boys,” Ghostface mask drawls in a voice that travels. He cocks the gun and points it at my face, my ears ringing from the last shot as I stand there, frozen.

“Or I kill her right here.”

11

Just like that, my mind goes blank. I stare at the tall man in the ghostface mask, unable to form a thought past one.

Oh shit.

There’s nothing funny about the gun pointed at me, and somehow the black ring of the barrel feels like a black hole just waiting to suck me in if I stay still too long. My stomach twists violently, sending a wave of nausea through me, and from the corner of my eye, I see movement slip to the side.